I don’t know how many hours you sat Beside our children at our old upright, The one with missing key tops, Listening to them struggle through Their pieces for the week, Pieces they sometimes practiced, Still you taught the what they Were ready to learn, Making it fun, No matter their talent or preparation, Helping them to love music, Affirming them Not condemning their feeble attempts, Coming to our house week after week, Letting us work off the lessons Or pay as we could, Giving our children music when it was needed, Not when we could afford it, Music to last a lifetime, Music for the good times and the bad, Music written on their souls because It was taught with love,

They are building another new house Where the wildflowers bloomed. The red clay dirt has been scraped, Trenches scored for footings. The indian paint brush, black eyed susans, And fire wheels have disappeared

Soon cement, studs, and flooring Will occupy that space. After the brick and inside work, Green sod will fill the yard. Maybe a swing set with laughing children Or dog run will appear.

In a year or two daffodils, Yopon holly, canna lilies, or elephant ear Will soften the rigid red brick. Marigolds or impatients May line the walks. Perhaps they will plant a flowering pear tree.

I was reminded again today, How important it is to weed My own garden and How difficult and even dangerous it is, To try to weed, Someone else’s ground.

Not knowing what is planted in that soil, It is easy to pull a flower in its beginnings, Mistaking it for a weed. Leaving a gaping wound whose Healing takes such time And effort that one tires into exhaustion.

In the heat of the moment, One is served best by Searching out and extracting, Personal weeds as carefully as possible, Leaving the care of another’s plot, Safely in the owner’s loving hands.

Our school playground
Empty, lonely, deserted,
Raining, blowing, dripping,
Water running by the swings.
We stand at the window
And
Watch puddles forming.
The trees, bushes, and grass are drenched,
Too moist to slide down the slide,
Little streams are beginning to run down the hill,
There is a lake forming at the bottom,
Furthermore it is too soggy for soccer,
Likewise it is too wet for tag,
Too much rain for playing outside today,
Indoor recess for all!
Ahh
h
h
h
h
h
h!

A river of people flowed in and out Along the art fest stalls displaying Sculpture, painting, pottery, glass works, With people floating in and out, Seeking the medium that pleased them most, Slipping by the booths that didn’t interest them.

We melted in among the swirl, Swimming smoothly stopping and starting, Soaking up the art, yet keeping Roger’s head in sight, As he moved effortlessly, gliding quickly through the flood, We paused longer at displays, Talked briefly with some artists.

It seemed a thoughtful overflow of young and old, Couples, singles, babies in strollers, teens, Somehow calmed and gentled in the stream, Amazed that in three hours of drifting, We were jostled or bumped only once or twice, And then received profuse apologies!

The sun, the breeze, the early Spring, The coming back to life, The art and its creators, Came together for one delightful day, Which flowed and ebbed into A lovely memory.